The Shadow Man
by l'ombre de tes yeux
Summary: After being injured on the rooftops of the City, Garrett is pulled from the river by a strange woman. But what does she really want?
1. The Rooftops

It is night. The sky is cloudless and a chill sliver of moon shines down on the city. In a dark room overlooking a dockside works yard, a man waits. He's been holed up in here for days. The Watch are looking for him. His is the face on the Wanted posters all over town; the most notorious criminal the city's never managed to bring to justice... yet. He knows it's only a matter of time before they catch up with him. He laughs. Those who climb the highest have furthest to fall. He's climbed the highest. He is the one everyone has nearly caught, he is the one they all want to see swinging from the length of rope on the L-shaped frame outside the town hall. But he's not going to dance to their tune. He's not going to wear the hemp tie with the special knot. He's not going to die for someone else's moral code. He is the shadow man. Old Metal-Eye, the street kids call him. He is Garrett, and he dances to no-one's tune.

He looks out of the dirty window. It's a cold, windy night, not many people around. He's been hiding in this room what feels like eternity, waiting for the police to either show themselves or give up. He longs for the fresh night air on his face after days of confinement. His feet itch for the feel of tiles and gutters beneath them, the moonlight in his eyes, nothing but his own strength and speed and agility to save him from a messy death on the street below. Stalking on high, prowling across the city never touching the street, it's like flying. Yes. Enough hiding. He wants to fly again. He puts his thief's blacks on. Bow and arrows, check. Flash bombs, check. Blackjack, check. Sword... no. Too heavy. Utility belt, lockpicks, hood, cloak. He smiles a brief, mirthless smile. Let them come.

To the casual observer, it would seem like there was a cat or something up on the rooftops of the city that night; the occasional flashes of dark movement, or a fleeting glimpse of a glowing green eye are the only traces that anything other than pigeons prowls above people's heads. But any cat that gets in Garrett's way is asking for trouble. This is his domain, this is where he belongs. He's alive and free up here and he never wants to come down. He leaps over the roofscape with sure-footed ease, exquisitely aware of the abilities and limitations of his own body, the well-trained machinery of sinews and muscles and skin and bones, so strong, so fragile. Not for him the shabby amulets and lucky rabbit's-feet and worthless charms of other nightcrawlers; he doesn't believe in luck. He believes in what he can see and hear and feel. The moonlight above him. The roofs below. The reek of the river, the crunch of cart wheels on the cobblestones thirty feet down. His own breath and the giddy pounding of his heart, the adrenaline rushing through his bloodstream with the vertiginous thrill of jumping clear across a street, the hard relief of rough gritty bricks and stone guttering under his hands. The sweat on his brow and down his back. His muscles twang and sing like bow strings as night cradles him in her inky arms, and dammit, it feels so good.

A few things catch his eye. A single candle burning in an upstairs window. The flicker of moonlight on the river. A beautiful woman asleep by firelight in a dingy attic, her hair spilling around her on the pillow like a golden storm. It's been a while since he's had a woman. Not since... no, Garrett, memory lane's nothing but trouble. Don't go down there. Memories have no benefit. The future gradually becomes the present, and once it has passed, it should not be revisited.

He hears shouting. A searchlight flickers on below him, cutting through the darkness and blinding him with its relentless white glare. He throws an arm up over his eyes, silhouetted against the light like a paper cut-out. An arrow screeches past him and ricochets off the tiles. He dives aside, right to the edge of the roof, but he's not quick enough. Another arrow takes him through the shoulder and the impact knocks him backwards. He flies, he falls, his angular body plummeting through space like a black-clad meteorite, wreathed in a billowing cloak, hot scarlet drops of his own blood falling around him like rain. He howls like an animal with the rush of it. He's not afraid of falling. He's afraid of what happens at the end of the fall. Water, glittering, multi-faceted, surges up to meet him with its icy embrace. He plunges into it headlong, the cold and the shock taking his breath away. His skin shrinks tighter around his bones, trying to keep the heat in as he sinks deep down, right to the bottom where silt and waste and weeds welcome him to the fold, wanting him to sleep down there for ever with them. Bubbles stream from his mouth like a strange silent language that only the fish speak. His empty lungs burn. He touches bottom and kicks upwards, shooting towards the surface like an arrow, so fast, so slow. He's desperate for air. The pressure's like an iron band around his skull, squeezing and crushing. He'll never make it in time; he can feel himself doubling over from lack of air. Three feet away, two feet, one...

Then his head breaks the surface and the relief of breath is so sweet it's like being born all over again, breaking out from a tiny dark watery world into a huge boundless one of air and space. He gasps and splutters, flailing one arm to stay afloat. The other cannot move and hangs uselessly down by his side. It's so cold. He's lost his gloves under the water and the bare skin on his hands hurts with the temperature. Focus. Forget the cold. Get out of here. Get out or you'll freeze to death.

As he tries to swim, the pain in his shoulder changes from a sting to a boiling seethe. Thin bloody trails float on the water behind him as he flounders and flaps, kicking frantically. The water sucks at his opened veins, a strange, sweet drain. He's not cold any more, the pain keeps him warm. He can't feel his feet, but that's alright. More arrows splash into the water around him. He kicks faster and soon they're too far away. He swims with the current, downriver towards Eastport and the factories. His arm is on fire but the rest of him is going numb. His sodden clothes are like lead and his one good arm catches in the strap of his quiver as he forces himself to keep going. It's so tempting to let go, to sag into the water and become one with the flotsam and the bones and the lost things on the weedy riverbed. A tiny light on the shore calls him like a beacon and he grits his teeth, aiming for it, his survival instincts shouting louder than his protesting muscles and the agony in his shoulder and the dear, hopeless longing for a peaceful watery grave.

The light on the shoreline is a lantern held by a woman. About six feet away from her, he gets bogged down in the swampy mud of the shallows. His knees sink and his cloak tangles around him. By now he's too weak and tired to fight it. He just has time to let out one strangled, wordless cry before his head goes under and he swallows water. She wades in towards him, up to her knees, up to her thighs. Her arms haul him relentlessly upwards, his injured shoulder screams as she pulls on it and he jerks free of the mud with a squelch. Then he's on the stony shoreline, gasping and retching up the dirty water he swallowed. He falls to his knees, then his side. His arm will not support him any more. He's covered in blood and slime, lying on the pebbles. It's so cold. The last thing he feels before he shuts down is her hands turning him over onto his back and snapping off the shaft of the arrow, leaving the head buried in his flesh like a burning metal bone.


	2. First Meeting

I got him. He's still alive.

Well done. You acted quickly. I did not think he would get so far.

What should I do with him? If I hand him over to you now, he'll either die from his wound or he'll escape again.

You're right. We cannot let him die before the appropriate time. He must atone for his crimes with his life, and know it. He must know that the law has won. Nothing else will do.

I can keep him. I can heal him. Then he may trust me.

An interesting idea...

Do you want me to keep him?

Yes, do that. Earn his trust. Befriend him. Then we will lay a trap for him. A trap from which not even he can escape, a trap he will walk right into with open eyes.

What kind of trap?

I will design it. You just hang onto him. Do not let him out of your sight. Make yourself part of his life. Once a man like Garrett has something he wants, he will not give it up easily.

Something he wants?

He's a man, isn't he? Appeal to his senses if you have to. Distract him. Break his concentration. Remember, you catch more flies with honey than with gall.


	3. In The Alchemist's House

The first thing that returns after a blackout is hearing, long before sight, long before touch and taste and smell. A fire crackling, the light footsteps of a lady walking in stockinged feet on creaking floorboards. The roar of the city outside. Then feeling returns. Lying on his back. Warmth. Woollen blanket over bare skin. A terrible ache raging in his shoulder, a dreadful, crippling weakness. Legs like lead, million-ton eyelids. An itchy bandage, the smell of bitter herbs. Then at last sight returns. His head is turned to one side, away from the wound. The room is small, sloping, cluttered with objects and their shadows. The footsteps approach and he looks at the woman to whom they belong. She's short, slender, with an endless braid of dark glossy hair wound around her head like a sleeping snake. Her face is small, olive-skinned, with broad angular cheekbones and black arched brows. Her eyes are wide and green, her mouth is roses filled with snow. A Cyric woman. She smiles at him.

'Hello, Garrett,' she says with the strange harsh accent of that Southern city. She lays a cool hand on his forehead briefly. 'Your fever's gone down. I was worried you wouldn't live through it.'

She knows his name. He tries to speak and all that comes out is an inhuman rasp. Licking dry, salty lips, he tries again.

'How do you...'

'How do I know who you are? With an eye like that, who else could you be?'

'What happened to me? I remember...'

He remembers bright light. Pain. Falling. Water closing over his head. Did he drown and this is some kind of afterlife?

'I saw you in the water. You shouted for help, so I pulled you out. You had an arrow in your shoulder. I took you back here, to my house. Your wound got infected from the dirt in the river. You've been here for three days, raving and hallucinating. I didn't think you'd make it.'

Three days? In three days anything could have happened. She knows who he is. She knows, therefore, that he's a wanted man.

'Don't worry, I won't give you away. The Watch will never find you here.'

Oh God, yes, that was it. The Sheriff had just increased the price on his head, to galvanize his sloppy workforce into searching harder so they didn't have to cough up when the time came. Those damn Mechanist lights. Eyes on every corner. Even the rooftops aren't safe.

'Why didn't you hand me over to the police? That's what anyone else would have done.'

'I'm not interested in their reward money. Besides, I trained at the Downwind guild. You were a household name amongst our kind. I could hardly give you over to the bulls.'

She smiles, but he isn't convinced. He suspects a plot, an attempt to blind him with the generosity of a stranger and make him forget to watch his back. But it won't work; he's lived far too long watching his back to forget about it. And even if she isn't working for the Watch, the Downwinders hate him almost as bad. There's got to be some kind of hidden agenda, and he wants to leave before it works itself out on him. He tries to sit up. The pain jars through his shoulder, so severe he nearly blacks out. A fresh ribbon of blood slides out from under the poultice, dark and hot on his skin. He grits his teeth and stands up dizzily, wobbling like a new-born horse.

'I wouldn't try and run anywhere, Garrett. You won't last long out there.'

He looks out of the window. It is snowing and he is wearing nothing but his under-shirt and leggings. He doesn't recognise the street outside. He feels an overwhelming desire to crawl back into bed and return to blissful unconsciousness. As though they have already decided without his brain's final vote, his legs buckle and he sways. She catches him and makes him sit down.

'I promise I won't hurt you. Now relax.'

Imprisoned by his own weakness, he sits there on the bed. He runs a hand through his hair tiredly. It is clean, as is the rest of him. That means that while he was out cold, she undressed him and cleaned him up. Which raises questions about what she's done with his stuff. No, until he can move, it's best not to. She says she wouldn't give him away. Whether that's the truth or not, he doesn't know, but he's hardly in a position to mistrust her and escape, considering he can't even walk. She comes back with a steaming bowl of soup, which tastes of salt and unfamiliar spices. It's good and hot. She watches him as he eats it, then takes it away. As she goes, he asks her what her name is.

'Elena. Elena Santos.'


	4. Second Meeting

He doesn't trust me.

Never mind that. Is he getting better?

Yes. He heals very quickly.

That is good. I have designed the trap. How soon will he be ready?

Another week or so. You should call off the search. He thinks I am one of you.

He is right, Elena. You are one of us. But it is your job to convince him otherwise.

Could you not just banish him or something? Why kill him? He has not killed anyone.

He killed Karras. He killed Constantine. He killed Truart.

But I thought Moseley –

Do not mention her name to me! Moseley is dead. Anathema. She and her accomplices have been brought to justice. As will this thief be brought to justice. He has blighted this city for too long with his evil ways. More deaths at his hands will not be tolerated.

You're right, I suppose. Send me word when the trap is ready. When he is well, I will tell him.


	5. The Job

A week passes. The unseasonably early snow rages against the windows. Garrett sits by the fire in Elena's house. The wound in his shoulder has the itchy tightness of healing flesh. He has found out where she has put his gear: in a tiny closet off the hallway leading to the front door, beyond which lies he knows not what. Stairs, probably. A door to a street he does not recognise, the listless gloom of the industrial areas. Truly a God-forsaken part of town.

He hears the door open, then shut, and Elena comes in with snow in her hair. Her boots crunch with frost as she walks to the fire and stands in front of it, toasting her hands gratefully. He looks up at her, wondering how a Cyric woman can stand this kind of weather. Her small, delicate frame is not built for harsh winds and blizzards, it's built for humid, sultry heat. She lets her hair spill out of its braid and it hangs down her back in tangled curls like a dark waterfall. She smiles at him.

'You look better today.'

'I feel better.'

'Those herbs seem to be working. You heal up remarkably fast, you know. A week ago you were at death's door.'

He shrugs one shoulder, not trusting the other one to stay joined-up. He wonders exactly what kind of herbs she's been using on him, and why the stitches are so damn scratchy. Dirty needle, oh God...

'Where did you learn medicine?'

'Part of my job. It's not as exciting as yours, but then few jobs are.'

'What do you do?'

It's about time he figured this out. If he knows what she does, it'll be easier to give her the slip when the time comes. She grins.

'I never told you? Oh. I used to be a thief with the Downwinders, but I got bored of swiping old ladies' handbags. I became a go-between. I fence a bit, I run a black-market apothecary, and I do the occasional burglary job on the side when the going gets tough. Nothing major. Not like you.'

Ignoring the flattery, he shakes his head, frowning.

'How come I've never heard of you? I know all the fences in this town.'

'I worked for Ramirez's people, but now Ramirez is dead I've gone independent. I didn't want to split off while he was alive – you probably know what it's like having his goons after you – but once he died I cut myself loose. I never want to work for a Warden again, it's awful.'

He nods. Too right. Still, a strange coincidence, to be picked up by an independent fence just as he's looking for a new one. A little too convenient to be genuine.

'Where do you operate?'

'Eastport. Round the back of the old cathedral.'

A likely story. There's something she's not telling him, but he can't quite put his finger on it. All he knows is that it's starting to bug him. He can't place her at all. He would have heard of a female fence – they're rare enough – but a female fence from Cyric?

'You know what? I don't think I believe you.'

She shrugs, laughing.

'Well, Garrett, believe what you like. But it begs the question... why would I rescue you, give up my bed for you, heal your wounds, all the while endangering myself by keeping you in my house, if I wasn't on your side?'

She's right. Unless she has some kind of a death wish, no ordinary citizen would do this. He looks around her room, crowded with bottles of potion, jars of herbs, strange alchemical equipment, books, dishes, clothing and the miscellaneous clutter of a busy person's life. She's obviously not an ordinary citizen, but he hasn't got much else to go on.

'Alright. I'll trust you... for now.'

'Good. I wouldn't like you not to trust me.'

He raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. She sits down at the table, flinging her cloak over the back of the chair. He notices, not for the first time, that she has a remarkably good figure.

Stop staring, Garrett. She's trying to distract you. She's trying to pull a fast one. Don't let it work.

She searches through the papers in her bag for a minute, then extracts one with a flourish and hands it to him. It's written in Downwind code, but he remembers how to read it well enough.

'Why are you giving me this?'

'I thought you might be interested. I, uh... borrowed this commission from a Downwinder when he invited me to his house and carelessly left his bureau unlocked. It's a tricky job, but it sounds like you'd be the man to do it.'

'A Downwind job? Oh brother. How much?'

'I don't know exactly, but it was given to Raphael. He's one of the best.'

'The best of a bad lot, you mean. That doesn't answer my question.'

'Well, exactly how much, I don't know. Several thousand, I imagine.'

A tidy sum, considering the job looks pretty simple. Break into a dockside warehouse, redirect the cargo of rare Eastern silks to the given address by forging a new delivery sheet, steal at least another 500 worth of assorted loot and get out without killing anyone. They've even provided a map.

'You're giving me this commission? Why?'

She smiles mysteriously, knowingly, in a way he doesn't entirely like.

'Because I want you on my books, Garrett. I'm sick of fencing junk for two-bit taffers whose idea of a big job is robbing the local pawnshop. Taking 30% profit from a pile of second hand rubbish just doesn't make ends meet. I take 30% of whatever else you get... the money from the cargo's all yours. You'd be mad to refuse, considering the size of the bounty on your head.'

He considers it. Something inside him is telling him it's a trap, but another something is rubbing its hands and cackling gleefully about the prospect of receiving several thousand for a job like this. He mentally flips a coin. Heads for take it, tails for leave it.

It's heads.

'Alright. I'll take it. But seriously, Elena, any funny business and I swear I'll come back from the grave to get even with you.'

'I'm sure you will,' she says sweetly, getting up and producing a bottle of wine from somewhere. He has good vision, but he could have sworn it just appeared in her hand like magic. She opens it with a practised hand and pours two glasses. Her eyes glitter slightly, like cats' eyes in the light.

'To ill-gotten gains.'

She clinks her glass against his. It's an old thieves' toast, one he hasn't heard for a while because he doesn't tend to drink with other thieves. He repeats it, without mockery, and drinks. The wine is old, soft, mellow on the tongue. After a glass or two, the little paranoid voice inside him goes away, lulled to sleep by the warmth of the fire and the fumes of the alcohol. It must have been a long time since he last had a drink because it goes right to his head. The tension unwinds, the taut strength of his body relaxes, the permanent fight-or-flight adrenaline rush slows down to barely a trickle. He forgets the pain in his shoulder, forgets that he's a wanted man on the run, forgets practically who he is. All he's aware of is the flickering candles, the snow falling soft outside the window and Elena's wide, sea-green eyes holding his gaze, bottomless in the candlelight. He doesn't notice her getting closer until it's too late. As they finally touch, gentle, slow, burning hot, he realises that it was inevitable. He lets it happen. After all, it's been a while.


	6. Third Meeting

He has taken the job.

Good! Excellent news. How did you manage to convince him, in the end?

If you must know... I got him drunk and seduced him.

I see. Your sacrifices will not go unrecognised. Now you should come to us. We want him to see you when he realises his mistake. We want him to know just how wrong he was.

But I –

Elena, is that a hesitation I hear? We can't have that. Don't tell me you have developed personal feelings for this worm of a man?

Well, uh –

Oh, you have? Too bad. You should know by now: work comes first. There will be other attractive scumbags, who perhaps we will not need to deal with so... severely. Still, you will come to us. You will let him see you betray him. You will do your duty to this city.

I....

You will, Elena, whether you like it or not. Is that clear?

Yes. Crystal clear.


	7. Curiouser and Curiouser

After a few more days, Garrett decides he's fit enough to do the job. Elena has been strangely silent since that reckless, drunken night, but he thinks little of it. It wouldn't be the first time he'd been with a girl and she thought that made him hers. He is nobody's. People can borrow him temporarily, for large sums of money, but any woman who thinks she can have him for a bottle of wine and a night of bedroom gymnastics is a fool. Pity, because she was quite a good gymnast.

To his eternal relief, the new searchlights aren't working in all this snow. As he walks past one of them, a team of Mechanist engineers are clustered around it, complaining and brandishing various rather lethal-looking tools. The snow might provide him with safety from those, but it sure gives him a few other problems. Camouflage is a nightmare – what do you wear when the ground is white and the shadows are black? Not to mention the fact that everything is frozen and slippery, especially the roof-tiles. Even the river's iced over. If he has to do any more flying leaps off buildings, he's a goner if he hits the river ice. Running is out of the question, climbing will be a nightmare and as for leaving no trace, forget it. He's going to track snowy muddy prints all over. He hunches deeper into his cloak and shivers, his breath steaming in coils away from his face. His shoulder is mostly healed, but still very stiff and inclined to seize up after a while. He stalks along, cursing the cold and the river for taking his gloves. His hands are frozen, fingers brittle and stiff. He's covered them with strips of black cloth torn from the hem of his cloak, wrapped around like beggars' rag-shoes, but this does little to keep out the cold. He can't remember the last time the winter was this bad. If the temperature drops any lower, the fluid in his mechanical eye will freeze. It's barely past eight and it's already been dark for hours; the torches in the streets hiss and splutter as the snowflakes land on them, and people hurry by with their heads down.

From Eastport it's not so far to the docks, even following the road rather than the Thieves' Highway, but it's a dreary walk, sloshing through half-frozen puddles with the wind threatening to rip his hood off his face at every step. His cloak swirls around him like a dark cloud as he trudges along. Guards patrol miserably, grumbling about the icy roads, slipping and sliding in their armoured boots; he stifles a laugh as one hapless watchman skids round a corner and crashes right into the guy who's come to take over his shift. Garrett takes advantage of the swearing tangle of limbs to slip past and head down a narrow alley. At the end of this alley is a little-known tavern, the Sailor's Rest; most people take one look at its boarded-up windows and mouldering bricks and walk right past, but among the shadowy citizens of the underworld it's a welcome sight on a winter evening. He opens the door with a frozen hand, wincing as the cold metal clings to his numb flesh, and goes inside.

He's hit with a wall of beery heat; they've banked the fire up high and the little room is crowded with criminals of all types. A few people wave to him cheerfully but he ignores them; he hasn't come here for a social drink, he's here for business, and he hasn't stayed alive all these years by being anything but single-minded. He goes up to the bar and Rosie, the landlord's wife, breaks off her conversation with a fledgling pickpocket to talk to him.

'Alright, chook, haven't seen you for a while. Where you been?'

Rosie is well-known for calling you by some kind of silly endearment; she doesn't ever ask her customers' names, but she knows everyone by sight and she never forgets a face. He shrugs lopsidedly, his shoulder aching from the sudden changes in temperature.

'That would be telling. Listen, Rosie, I need to ask you something.'

'What's that, dearie?'

'Have you ever heard of an Eastport fence called Elena Santos?'

'A Cyric? Nope, can't say I have. Unless she's with one of the Wardens. Though I don't imagine a guy like you has much doin's with them lot.'

'I don't have a lot of contact with the Wardens, no. But I'd be interested to know if anyone else has heard of her, because I thought I knew all the fences around here.'

'So did I, love. But you got me there, I never heard of her. She got a turf?'

'Eastport. Round the back of the old cathedral, apparently... ah, never mind. Rosie, you've told me what I needed to know, so thank you. And I promise I'll pay my tab by the end of the week.'

So, he thinks grimly as he shoves his way out of the crowded pub, she's not a real fence after all. If that's true, then who the hell is she? A Watch spy? A Guild contact? A Keeper? He wonders, as he stands outside in the shadow of a doorway, just what he's about to get himself into. This job could be genuine, or it could be a hoax. It sounds perfectly plausible; not so well-paid as to be obviously fake, but big enough for him to think twice about doing a runner. If he dropped it and it turned out to be real, he'd kick himself. Still, there's a lot of loose ends flapping around Elena that he can't tie up. Her mysterious manner. The fact that while he was in her house, he never saw any stolen goods, she never spoke about her business apart from on _that_ night, and while she had a lot of alchemical paraphernalia, she never seemed to brew any medicines apart from to use on him. Those lovely, innocent, little-girl eyes coupled with that slow smile that knows more than it's letting on. He grins suddenly. It's a long time since he's met a woman as enigmatic as himself. If she doesn't sell him out, they could make quite a pair. If she does, however... well, let's just say that corpses make pretty lousy girlfriends.


	8. Every Guard's Worst Nightmare

The warehouse behind Pier Five is a huge, sprawling network of red-brick buildings connected by rusting catwalks, which are treacherous in this icy weather. The last shift is long gone, signed off hours ago, and only a few guards stomp gloomily about the place, making their patrols as short as possible before they go and huddle in the break room, a tin-roofed shed containing a small brazier and the clutter of spare armour, old boots and broken weapons. David Chapman is one of these guards. He sighs as the next guy comes in; that means it's his turn to go out in the cold and dark and keep a watch for thieves. Man, who'd rob this dump? he thinks grumpily as he pulls his helmet back on, fastens his cloak and reluctantly leaves the guardhouse. It's not like they ever have anything worth stealing come in here. Who'd wanna walk off with a crate of burrick jerky? Not only would it be the devil of a thing to carry, but you'd stink for weeks.

Chapman crunches his way around the outside of Cargo Bay 1, his boots already full of icy slush. Grumbling to himself about how he just dried them off and now they're all wet again, he clomps past the main doors. Was that a shadow he just saw? Could have been anything. It's not like he wants to go running after intruders that aren't there, not when he slipped over yesterday and bruised his ass like billy-o chasing something that turned out to be a stray dog. He was the laughing stock of the guardhouse, make no mistake. His prominent ears redden beneath his helmet as he thinks of their jibes, especially Ratty Smith. That guy can be real mean sometimes, Chapman thinks glumly. He'll show them, the taffers. Hey, what if he caught a proper thief? That would make them sit up, probably choke on their ale in shock. Crapman Chapman bagging a real live thief, what a scream.

Chapman looks around abruptly at the scrunching sound of a foot in snow. His knuckles tighten automatically around the hilt of his sword and he takes a couple of faltering steps forward. His bravado about bagging a thief suddenly evaporates and he feels small and lonely out in this huge wasteland of a works yard.

'Hello? Who's there?' he calls. Stupid thing to say, as if they're gonna answer. It was probably just my own footstep, or a rat or something. No use getting jumpy. He sighs, replaces his sword in its scabbard and continues on his way, actually rather glad it wasn't anything. A real thief would take his head off without a second thought. Cold-blooded killers, to a man. Some of the older guys on the day shift tell horrible stories about the scum of the underworld and the awful things they do to guards: shoot at them from the rooftops, drop down and stab them in the back, knock them out and leave an empty bottle beside them so they get fired for being drunk on duty. The tales that stick most in Chapman's mind are those of a thief called Garrett. The man can appear out of nowhere, slip through any door, pick any lock and simply melt away into the shadows once he's finished, leaving nothing but a trail of missing items and the occasional guard who went out on patrol and never showed up again. Chapman shivers. Of all the thieves he's heard about, it's Garrett who scares him the most. Though what would a guy like that want from a shit-hole like this? he tells himself resolutely, trudging around the next corner. A spindly catwalk with a rusting ladder looms out of the misty darkness, the ladder adorned with security tape and 'Unsafe – do not use' notices. That's the ladder little Tim fell off and bust his leg, just last week. Nasty business that was. Poor kid.

Chapman freezes. Is that just his mind messing with him, or did that shadow move? He stands still, straining his eyes, then suddenly realises what he's looking at. It's a man, hooded and dressed in black, a shroud-like cloak billowing out behind him as he crouches on top of a stack of crates about ten feet high. Chapman can only stare, dumbfounded, as the man stands, runs forward and soars into space towards the ladder. His grace is astonishing. It's as if he belongs in the air. Thin black twigs cutting through the darkness, his outstretched arms grasp the ladder and he wraps himself around it like a climbing vine. Chapman is rooted to the spot. Part of his brain is screaming at him, Shit, it's a thief, it's a bloody thief, do something you stupid taffer,but he isn't listening. He's shocked by the beauty of it; the absolute, silent precision of the man's motions as he pulls himself up, the sinewy tautness of the slight leather-clad body, the ragged cloak flaring out like a black flame. Suddenly the man gasps and lets go of the ladder, landing awkwardly with a grunt of pain and a curse, holding his shoulder in a gloved hand.

It's the curse that finally cuts through Chapman's paralysis, reminding him that this is a miscreant, a human, flesh and blood, rather than some kind of vengeful night-prowling angel. His legs unlock, his blood roars through his veins and his hand drags his sword from its sheath of its own volition. The man's head whips round as he gets to his feet, his hood blows down in a sudden gust of wind and Chapman sees a lean, crafty face framed by thick black hair. One baleful green eye gleams out of the darkness. It's the thief every guard has nightmares about. It's Garrett, the shadow man.

Chapman looks at Garrett, Garrett looks back. The moment stretches into eternity then snaps back. Cursing again, the thief takes off down the alleyway at the side of the building. Chapman thunders after him, his heavy boots ringing in the snow, praying he won't slip over with his sword drawn. Garrett is a fast runner, even after falling twelve feet off a ladder, and Chapman screeches to a halt when he realises he can't see the fleeing form anywhere. Swearing and panting, he looks around, then laughs. The idiot's run himself into a corner, he rejoices silently, surveying the jumble of crates, carts and barrels that fill up the back end of the narrow cul-de-sac. Then the laugh fades on his lips. This is _Garrett _we're talking about here. He can hide anywhere and jump out when you're least expecting. Chapman waves his sword in what he hopes is a threatening manner. If he can just get the guy in a fight, he might stand a chance. Sword fighting is the thing he excels at, and he's a tall, strongly-built man in the prime of his life. The thief is tiny compared to him. One good hack would probably finish the job. Imagine it! Him, Dave Chapman, being the one to bring Garrett in.

'Come out, you taffer!' he shouts defiantly. 'Stop messing around, I know you're there!'

A mocking laugh sounds close to him, then a bit of wood bounces off his chest from the opposite direction, knocking him to the ground.

'Ow! You bastard, I'm gonna skin you alive when I find you!' he blusters, getting up clumsily and rushing in the direction of where the wood came from. Then, in a rather confused moment, something heavy whacks him over the head with a dull thud, his knees buckle and the world spins crazily. The last inane thought in David Chapman's head before he hits the ground with a clash of armour is Oh damn, the wife's gonna be pissed if I'm late back for dinner again...


	9. The Oldest Trick In The Book

Elena waits anxiously outside the shop behind the Eastport Cathedral. It's never been so hard before. Her stomach goes in knots at the thought of what she's about to do. The others, she couldn't care less about them, they were scummy lowlifes and she felt the need to wash obsessively every time they touched her. But him... he's different. That he's cunning and clever and dangerous, there's no doubt. But a killer? She remembers his ravings as he lay in her bed, white-hot and delirious with fever. They were the panicking desperation of a man with his back against the wall, not the blood-drenched ramblings of a psychopathic monster. The thought of him climbing the stairs to the gallows on a cold grey morning, barefoot and blindfolded, is like a dagger twisting in her heart.

'You won't miss him,' a voice says next to her. She jumps and wheels round.

'I thought I told you people not to come here?'

'We don't trust you enough to deal with this on your own. I think you're wavering, Elena. This job is not for those who waver, so we're here to make sure you're as good as your word.'

She is silent. Eventually they go inside and leave her alone, standing on the street corner like some ragbag whore. There, at last, a thin figure in black, walking with a slight limp. He comes over to her and waves a paper in her face. It's the original delivery sheet from the spice crate, taken off so neatly that you can barely see the holes. Pure artistry. She screws up a smile and takes his hand, leading him inside the shop. They're all waiting for him, ominous black pillars in their dark clothes and masked faces. He fights like a tiger, but four of them against him can only end one way. Pretty soon he's suspended between two of them, his legs dragging, all the fight beaten out of him by fists and feet and truncheons. His face is bloody, nose broken, lip split, but his uneven eyes burn out at her with a mixture of anger, dismay and, worse, resignation. She can only watch as they drag him outside and throw him in the wagon, bolting the door. He clings to the barred window, still staring at her. During the whole ordeal, he made not a sound. Some of them shout and curse and pray, but he is totally silent. She wonders if he'll ever speak again.

That's not the end of it. They make her attend his interrogation. Why they need to interrogate him, she doesn't know, but they do it anyway. The red-hot pokers down the soft skin on the inside of his arms. The horse-whip flaying his back to ribbons as he's tied to a backless chair. Worst of all, the rack, his scrawny frame arching and twisting in pain as his joints are slowly stretched further and further. It takes dislocation of both shoulders before he finally breaks his silence, his mouth cracking in a tormented scream, words pouring out like a flood. Yes, I killed Karras. Yes, I killed Constantine, and Truart, and all of them, whatever you say, please just make it stop.


	10. One More Sunrise

The next morning at dawn, a crowd has gathered in the square outside City Hall. Peasants crowding and jostling at the front, and further back some wooden benches have been erected for the nobility, who if anything are watching more eagerly than the workers. A guard opens the door of his cell. He's lying on his face on the cold floor, stripped to the waist.

'It's time. Get up.'

The guard hauls him to his feet. He doesn't protest. To come all this way and then be tricked by the oldest con in the book, a two-faced woman. He's been here before, but now he's truly run out of aces. Another guard walks behind him. His hands are bound behind his back and they lead him out. Out into the weak pale sunlight of his last morning. Crowds bay for his blood behind the fence. The man in the black hood stands by the gallows, holding the noose. He could lose his head, he could scream and curse and weep, but he's not going to. He hasn't wept since he was five years old. Memories flit randomly through his head and he pushes them away. There's nothing left. He had a good run, but this is the end. His luck had to run out somewhere.

The rope goes around his neck, resting on his buckled collar-bones. He refuses the bag over his head. He might be a criminal, but he's no coward. His feet are numb and the bare skin on his arms and chest is freezing, apart from the torture wounds which are on fire. The interminable reading of the charges and confession and all the rest of it drags on and on. Then the executioner steps forward. This is it, this is the moment of his death. He always wondered how it would be, in the end. Any last words? Well, I'm going to die, what do you expect me to say?

The executioner pushes him forward and pulls the knot tight around his neck. The crowd count down. Three. He looks at the sky, noticing for the first time how truly beautiful a sunny winter morning is. Two. He looks at the crowd, the sea of faces. I was one of you once. I don't blame you. One. Dead silence. He is rock-still, his heartbeat slow and steady. His hands do not shake. The trapdoor drops out and the rope jerks around his neck. He draws a last breath, the taste of the smoky city air suddenly the sweetest thing on earth. Then a shredding sound and he's falling, crumpling to the floor with the trailing end of the rope around his neck. There's no time to be surprised. Taking advantage of his dislocated shoulders, he forces his arms backwards over his head until they're in front of him, then runs, diving through the crowd. People scream, guards roar, his battered body feels like it's about to splinter apart, but he keeps going until his footsteps merge with hers.

All the shocked crowd sees is something fly through the air like a bullet, then the rope snaps. The rest is a blur. But out from the mêlée of confused guards, howling civilians and enraged Hammerites slip two running figures, one jerky and stumbling, its hands tied, the other slim and lithe, dressed in black with long dark hair streaming in the wind.


End file.
